


From Italy, With Love

by samimiami



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: AU, Angst, HIV/AIDS, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samimiami/pseuds/samimiami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it takes extraordinary circumstances to bring two people together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Italy, With Love

"This is how you make the meaning. You take two things and try to define the space between them.” –Richard Siken

 

_Mitch slouched in front of the bathroom mirror and ran his frail fingers over the swelling under his eyes. He hadn’t slept since he’d found that little splotch on his right shoulder blade. It was all unreal. It looked like a wine stain and spread over an inch of his thin, sallow skin. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to gay men anymore. AIDS was supposed to be a time capsule of the 80s; a horror story detached from reality._

_He couldn’t make himself cry about it because the guilt was overwhelming. The guilt was so visceral it consumed him, to the point where he thought about giving up. The ridiculous thing was, he’d only let one guy fuck him without a condom in his life. It had been a guy he’d trusted. His name was Giorgio and Mitch had DM’d him over Twitter for a few weeks before he met him in Milan while Pentatonix was on tour. Granted, he’d only known him in person for a couple of days, but Italy is an awfully romantic place. Mitch found the romanticism suffocating in retrospect. Damn bastard had lied to him, and now Mitch was going to die for it._

 

Mitch woke with a start and swiped at the layer of sweat on his forehead. It was only a dream. And what a terrible dream it had been. Still, he staggered into the bathroom and peeled of his sweat-soaked tank top to look at his shoulder where the mark had been in his dream. There it was, like always, his little brown mole that had been with him his whole life. Not AIDS, just a birthmark. Somehow, though, he couldn’t get rid of the shaking in his hands. 

He felt sort of woozy as he looked at his back in the mirror, remembering how different it had been in his dream. Suddenly he was turned around and on his knees in front of the toilet. How was this his life? His stomach felt like it had vanished from his body, and all that it left behind was a huge gaping hole filling with blood. 

Scott noticed something off about Mitch over breakfast. Mitch picked at his food, and kept pressing his hand to his abdomen like he was getting sick or something. There was no time for conversation, though, because before they knew it their Uber had arrived to rush them off to the studio. He wished there was time to bring it up, but the jam-packed scheduling left no room for anything more than small talk in between takes. 

He would bump into Mitch when they stood together in the sound booth, or try to rub his arm, but Mitch would inch away from him every time. Frankly, Mitch was glad for the forced silence between them. He needed room to think this through. Why would his brain write him such a morbid dream if there was nothing wrong? He should get tested. He should be responsible now, since he couldn’t go back in time and be more responsible in Italy. 

He’d have to be discrete about it. All Scott knew about the night he slept with that Italian guy was what Mitch had told him, which was essentially nothing. He’d never told Scott that they’d fucked, only that they’d made out. The only person Mitch had been able to confide in was Kirstie. He knew she would comfort him and not scold him like he was afraid Scott would. She’d been his closest confidante since high school, and she’d never let a secret slip. No matter how proud and open Mitch convinced himself he was, he was still ashamed to have been so foolish. Too ashamed to tell his best friend on the planet.

Scott was thankful when Kirstie finally pulled Mitch aside during their lunch break. He didn’t hear the conversation, but Mitch seemed more at ease when they piled back into the studio. 

 

The drive home from the studio was just as silent and tense as breakfast had been, and Mitch didn’t say a word until they were three episodes deep into _House Hunters_ and he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

“So Kirstie and I were talking earlier,” Mitch started, “and I need to tell you something but I don’t know how you’re going to react.”

Scott watched as Mitch practically squirmed on the couch opposite him, and waited for him to continue.

“Basically, I want to go to a clinic and get tested for STIs, you know, HIV, gonorrhea the whole shebang.”

“What, why? Mitch you haven’t been with anyone in weeks, you’re definitely fine.”

Mitch stared down at his hands folded in his lap and didn’t respond.

“You haven’t been with anyone in weeks, you would have told me” Scott repeated.

To Mitch’s ears it sounded like he’d basically growled it, and he felt the tears creeping up behind his eyes. Finally, he thought, finally I can cry but never at the right time.

“Do you remember the guy I went home with at the bar in Milan?”

“Who, Giorgio? You guys only made out, and you obviously don’t have herpes, Mitch.” There was an air of relief in his voice that he was surprised wasn’t reflected on Mitch’s face.

“That wasn’t it though. I,” his voice cracked as he felt tears roll over his lip and into his mouth, “I fucked him and we didn’t use a condom and it was a mistake but I need to get tested so I can quit having nightmares.”

Scott was practically smoking at the ears. “That’s why you were all moody at the studio today?”

“I couldn’t tell you Scott, it’s too much.”

“So that’s what we’re friends for?” he barked, “So you can keep secrets and pretend I don’t care?” He stalked off to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Mitch did the only thing he knew how to do when Scott was mad at him—curled up into a tiny forlorn ball on the couch, and waited for Scott to cool down. He’d been curled up there for what he thought was 20 minutes when Scott finally came back and sat down. He didn’t seem angry anymore, just exhausted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid, well, of this.” Mitch muffled into the couch cushion. 

“I’m not mad anymore,” he said simply. “And anyways, I was only mad because you didn’t tell me while we were still in Italy. We always trust each other with this stuff.”

Mitch sat up and folded his legs under him, not bothering to wipe his face.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“Will you do it with me?” Mitch whispered, “I’m really freaked out about this.”

 

That was how they ended up here, at 7AM in an STD testing clinic wearing matching yellow wristbands and tired grimaces. Neither of them had slept the night before while Mitch recounted the entire romantic escapade with Giorgio from first tweet to last awkward taxi ride. Being this tired was like being hungover. An episode of _Oprah_ from like 2005 was blasting out of the TV tucked into the corner of the waiting room. Stacks upon stacks of _Men’s Health_ magazine crowded the top of all the coffee tables, so that when the nurse brought out patient forms for them, there were no writing surfaces available.

They each grabbed a few magazines into their laps to write on, and Mitch smiled at the cover of the magazine on top of his pile. 

“All these guys are so hot, but also so straight. Really, it’s a tragedy David Beckham is straight, like yes, Daddy, please.” 

“Mitch, honey, if David Beckham were gay I would literally fight you for him. That man is an angel.”

A nurse came through the door under the Oprah TV and gestured toward them to follow her. Mitch jokingly brushed his hand along David Beckham’s scruff as he left the magazines in a pile behind him. Once they got into the little hallway of exam rooms though, the gravity of the situation settled in his stomach. 

“You two are a beautiful couple,” the woman smiled at them, “It’s nice to see two men being so responsible about their love life, you know?”

“Oh, we’re not…” Scott started, as Mitch squirreled his arm around the crook of Scott’s elbow. 

“Thank you.” Mitch said, smiling. 

The woman quirked her eyebrow in confusion at the two very different responses.

Apparently deciding this was one couple too fucked up to talk to, the nurse weighed them both in silence and then led them into an exam room where they were supposed to sit and wait for a doctor to come by. 

The nurse shut the door firmly behind her. Scott’s cheap plastic chair creaked as he pivoted to look Mitch in the face and whispered, “Mitch, that lady thinks we’re a couple, why would she think that? We’re not a couple, I have an actual boyfriend for God’s sake!” he laughed.

Mitch covered his face with his hands, embarrassed yet again by a stupid thing he’d done.

“I had to tell them we were a couple, it was the only way they’d let us get tested in the same room. They were going to split us up. I’m sorry Scott, but if I hadn’t lied there would be no reason for you to be here.”

“Sh, Mitch it’s okay. I just wish you’d told me sooner; and told me a few other things sooner too.” He smirked, and pulled Mitch’s hand into his own. He smoothed his thumb over the back of Mitch’s shaking hand, and didn’t comment on how hideously sweaty his palms were. For the first time since they’d left their hotel in Milan, Mitch felt totally safe.

Before long, a doctor appeared with two sterile cups for urine and then two sterile syringes for drawing blood. Everything was very sterile and everything was very fast. It couldn’t have been more than half an hour before they were ordering another Uber to head home. The nurse at the front desk told them that they would get a call within the week with their results. 

 

They were at the studio when Scott got his call, so they both snuck out of the booth to listen to the message. Scott gave Mitch a giddy thumbs up when the automated voice told him he was all clear. Mitch went back into the booth while Scott called Alex to tell him too, because that’s what couples do. Mitch so desperately missed being part of a team like that. 

A whole second week went by before Mitch got his call. It was somewhat less encouraging.

“It’s just that we’d like for you to come in for a one-on-one consultation to discuss further testing,” the cheery voice advised. Mitch wished he’d gone out clubbing with Alex and Scott and not stayed home alone. Maybe he could’ve missed this call. Instead of pouting about it like he usually would, he called the office and made an appointment for the next day, and felt as the bile in his stomach jumped around. He hadn’t been able to keep anything down all day, maybe he was coming down with the flu and it had thrown off his results.

 

When Mitch showed up to the clinic the next morning, the yelling Oprah onscreen didn’t seem like as much of a joke as she had before. The Men’s Health models didn’t even seem attractive anymore. They all seemed to blue steel their disdain at him for what he’d done.

The same nurse guided him to the scale, where she told him he’d shed three pounds from his already thin frame. Then he ended up in another exam room, this time without anyone to hold his hand. Unlike last time, the doctor came in and asked him to undress and put on a blue paper gown so he could perform a physical exam. The mark he explained he was looking for, a Kaposi sarcoma—the description of which was riddled with medical jargon that the doctor never slowed down to simplify—was exactly like what Mitch had seen in his dream. Mitch’s eyes filled and the doctor shoved a box of tissues into his lap and told him he’d give Mitch a few moments of privacy to change and collect himself. 

Once he’d changed into the hospital gown he opened his phone and thought about calling Scott. Maybe he should call his parents? It seemed too soon to call anyone with any sort of news, because he didn’t have any news yet. No one had mentioned the test results so until that time he shouldn’t worry. He needed someone to tell him that. He wished Scott would tell him that. 

The doctor knocked twice on the door before he came in and closed the door gingerly behind him. Mitch put his phone on top of the pile of his clothes and sat on the exam table. The sterile paper crinkled under him. Everything in the room was sterile and yet Mitch felt so irreconcilably dirty. 

The doctor ran his hand lightly over every inch of Mitch’s skin. He was more fucking thorough than most of Mitch’s past lovers. He even palpated over Mitch’s groin apparently looking for irritation or swelling. The entire ordeal felt like one big invasion of privacy. In the end he didn’t find anything, but Mitch couldn’t tell if that was a good thing, because the doctor simply told him to get dressed and immediately started preparing the giant syringe that hadn’t seemed so intimidating with Scott there last time.

With a swipe of an alcohol wipe and not a single word, he took another vial of blood, and told Mitch a nurse would be in to explain his situation.

After he left the exam room, though, Mitch was all alone with his thoughts again and wished he would come back so it wouldn’t be so quiet in the room. When the nurse came in Mitch wished he could be left alone forever. She told him that he’d get a letter in the mail from the doctor’s office with his results and welcomed him to call with any questions. 

Mitch cried in a stall of the bathroom for fifteen minutes before he ordered an Uber and went home. Scott was too hungover to notice him get back, so Mitch allowed himself the privacy to hideaway in his room for a few hours and be alone with his mortality. 

It was odd to hold something as heavy as death in his hands. It made him feel as small as an ant in a semi truck’s path. With HIV there is no cure, only management. Would he ever know a lover again who would trust him wholly and love him completely? He felt just as stained as he’d felt in his dream weeks ago, and he couldn’t shake it.

 

Sunday was quiet like always, and Scott poked his head into Mitch’s room around noon to ask if he’d gotten the call yet. Mitch just rolled over and pulled his comforter over his head.

 

Two Thursdays later he got his letter. It contained a pamphlet about support groups and statistics about the million people in the US who are HIV positive. Tucked in the pamphlet was a tiny slip of paper. It was a receipt charging him fifty dollars for the second blood test. Apparently only the first screening was free. They just catch the poor sons of bitches unlucky enough to need a confirmatory test for their profit. In a city like Los Angeles Mitch figured there must be lots of confirmatory tests.

Mitch called his parents. His mom was scared, wanted to visit. He told her he’d come home in a few weeks when they were done recording the album. His dad wished him luck. 

“Happy birthday, Mitchie,” his mom squeaked out between her tears. Mitch couldn’t see them, but her voice was practically wet with them. 

“Thanks mom, I love you.”

“Love you too sweetheart, we’ll talk to you soon.”

As the call ended, Mitch realized he hadn’t even noticed it was his birthday. Also, Scott had been unusually absent all day, which foretold the worst of all birthday traditions: a surprise party.

 

Lo and behold, at 9:30 that night, Scott and forty of his closest friends came bursting through the front door with screams and plenty of booze. Mitch hugged so many people he almost forgot about the letter. There was vodka to help with that.

They had Beyoncé blasting over the TV speakers and the neighbors had already knocked twice to ask them to quiet down. When people eventually started leaving, Mitch was only getting started. Fuck it all, this birthday could be his last. 

Scott was wandering around the apartment picking up empties when he noticed Mitch fixing himself another drink. 

“Sis, you gotta cool it, that’s gonna hurt in the morning,” he laughed. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, right?” Mitch said, forcing a laugh.

“Mitch?”

“What, Scott? It’s my birthday, I’ll get shitfaced if I want.”

“Did you get your call yet?”

“No call, but this morning I got a letter and I’m sick and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Somehow Scott always knew how to handle these things better than Mitch did. He set down the stack of red solos he’d been carrying and crossed the room in two seconds flat. He cradled Mitch’s head against his chest and held him there. It was warm and close and so unbelievably intimate, but Mitch didn’t let himself accept the gesture. His arms hung at his sides as Scott ran his hand over the scruffs of hair on the side of Mitch’s head. He hadn’t had a haircut in months. He looked like a fucking mess, but all he wanted was for Scott to kiss him and cuddle him and tell him he’d be okay. He didn’t deserve friends like this, not when it was so hard to separate the intimate from the platonic. Not when he was so selfish he’d consider fucking his best friend who was already in a relationship. This is not even to mention the fact that he could pose an actual threat to Scott’s health now. The way Scott held him seemed to suggest he didn’t mind, though.

To an outsider who didn’t know their friendship this kind of embrace would look like a man consoling his lover and it killed Mitch more than HIV ever would that this couldn’t be true. Scott liked guys like Alex—guys who had muscle and were tan and were so god damn gorgeous that Mitch could never compete. Mitch had accepted that eons ago in high school, but moments like these made it hard to reconcile that with their friendship. So what if they squished together on the couch and cuddled while they watched movies? Friends could do that. But the minute Scott reached his arm around Mitch’s chest and pressed a kiss to his scalp it didn’t seem so platonic anymore. Where was the line? 

“Hug me, damn it.” Scott insisted, tugging Mitch’s arms around his waist, to no avail. 

“I can’t Scott, I can’t do this right now.” 

“Can’t do what? We’re best friends and I love you and I’m comforting you because something terrible has happened and you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I want to be alone.”

“Well we’re best friends, so you can’t just choose when to push me away and when to be my friend”

“Yes, Mitch and Scott the eternal best pals, never anything more. _Scömìche_ , right? Just a funny little joke.” 

Scott pulled off him in a flash, like a kid who’d put his hand on a hot stove. “What are you saying, Mitch?”

“The way you hold me, say you love me… Fuck, sometimes the way you touch me doesn’t just feel like a friend thing, Scott. Maybe I’m just stupid drunk and don’t know what I’m saying but I can’t see the line between us being friends and us being romantic and I just don’t know if we’ve crossed it.”

Scott crumpled onto the stool by the counter and pressed his right hand to his temple. “Nothing has ever been black and white with us. It’s never been easy for me either.”

“Scott, I’m fucking HIV positive, nothing is easy anymore.” Mitch would storm off to his room and slam his door like a good drama queen except he was too drunk to even stand up. 

“HIV?” Scott covered his mouth after he said it, like it was too dirty a word to say. 

“Yes. And I’m going to be alone the rest of my sorry life until I die at forty five or some other miserable age, and there’s nothing you can do to save me this time. I don’t want to be saved. I don’t need you to save me.”

“Mitch,” He reached out for Mitch’s hand but instead watched the shadow of a man stand up before him. 

“Please, Scott. No.”

 

They held the secret in an awkward limbo between them for a few weeks while Mitch started his treatment and Scott’s relationship with Alex simultaneously imploded. Mitch spent a lot of his time alone in bed trying to sleep, so he wasn’t clear on what happened. 

Kirstie came by to visit a few times, and Avi and Kevin were sure to text him every once in a while to make sure he was doing alright. They all thought he had the flu—including Kirstie, which was a fact Mitch was not proud of. Even if this was going to be a reality in his life now, he couldn’t rationalize how it would make much of a difference to Kirstie since they were definitely never having sex. By that rationale though, he should never have told Scott, he supposed. Oh tequila, how you complicate things. 

As per request, Scott had kept away from him, so there wasn’t much communication between them. Mitch was beginning to regret pushing him away, but he was notoriously bad at reaching out for help, so he didn’t. Scott didn’t want to make Mitch feel uncomfortable, so he stayed away. 

Mitch went to his biweekly appointments alone, picked up prescriptions alone, and replayed _Brokeback Mountain_ alone. When his doctor suggested he attend a support group for HIV positive gay men in the area, he decided being alone didn’t suit him so well anymore. The doctor said if he was in a mixed status relationship then his partner was more than welcome to attend with him. Being alone in a big group of strangers trying to relate to you was worse than dealing with things alone. Mitch asked if Scott would be willing to go with him.

 

The meeting was ironically held in a church. Gay men of all backgrounds crowded into the cramped atrium and waited for the leader to arrive. There was no mingling. Everyone stuck to their partner or their cup of fruit punch. It was the quietest a group of gay men had ever been.

Once the leader, who introduced himself as Gary, led them into their meeting room, some of the men began complaining about how the chairs weren’t already set up. Gary chided them for being lazy and told them to take the chairs down themselves. 

He looked like an HIV camp counselor; he wore a red crew neck shirt with statistics on the back and “I’M A SURVIVOR” scrawled across the front. It was tucked into a pair of cargo shorts that cut off just above his knees. The man was so old it seemed like his leg hair was just as grey as his beard. The white Sketchers on his feet looked like he’d been wearing them to mow his lawn since 1990. Whatever, he seemed nice enough. 

“He’s going to think you’re checking him out if you keep staring,” Scott laughed into Mitch’s ear as he pulled him toward the back of the room. 

The chairs were in stacks back there, and Gary asked that they position them in one big circle. This wouldn’t be a problem except that about a third of the men present were too weak to lift a bulky metal chair off a stack their own height. It made Mitch’s stomach turn looking at these prophetic images of his future self. 

Scott became the champion of the group, carrying the chairs down five at a time. It earned him a few overly-appreciative glances from men around the room, particularly at his biceps. It made Mitch feel oddly protective to watch the men ogle at Scott, and once they were all sitting in a circle, Mitch took the opportunity to pull Scott’s hand onto his lap and place his own over it. Scott didn’t pull away. His hand was warm against Mitch’s thigh, and as much as Scott knew Mitch needed to be reassured, it was nice for him too. 

There was a sharing exercise that reminded Mitch of those beginning sequences of _Fight Club_ at the support groups where they hug and cry to each other. Standing there in the circle, Mitch wondered if anyone there was a parasite like in the movie, just feeding off their sadness. Someone could easily be faking having HIV and no one would know. 

It was comforting to Mitch in the same way homophobic comments had been when he was still in the closet. It gave him the option to fake it, to pretend it wasn’t an issue. With being gay, the closet was comfortable and let him pretend to be straight, no matter how painful and awkward that had been at the time. The anonymity at this HIV group did essentially the same thing; he could pretend that his pretend partner was the one with HIV. No one would dare ask. No one cared.

Gary told them to take their seats, and from that point forward Scott’s hand back on his thigh was the only thing that kept Mitch from floating away. His head felt like it was hovering five feet above the center of the circle of chairs. A few men cried as they told their stories, some of drug abuse and some of prostitution. Mitch felt awful for thinking it, but most of these men had exhibited extremely risky behavior that he never had. He knew he didn’t deserve this. Did that mean he thought they did?

At the end they all got stickers that said “KEEP YOUR HEAD UP!” over a corny smiley face. 

Scott insisted they stay after to help put the chairs up. Gary was excellent at keeping up pleasantries while they stacked the chairs (read: while Scott stacked the chairs). Mitch figured that must be why he’s so good at being a peer counselor. He was so god damn pleasant he could cure a fucking butterfly’s broken wing. 

“Y’all really are a beautiful couple, you know it?” Gary smiled. The way his mustache moved when he talked made Mitch feel sick. His comment was an echo of the nurse’s at the clinic, of every waiter at every restaurant, and of every interviewer for whom they’d done an interview. Scott always corrected them and Mitch always sat by his side as the conversation chugged awkwardly forward.

This time Scott didn’t correct him. He let Gary assume they were a real couple even though there was no risk to letting their guard down now that the group was gone. Scott didn’t just let him believe it, though, he proved it. Mitch watched in bewilderment as Scott intertwined his fingers with Mitch’s and pulled his hand up to his lips and kissed it lightly. 

“Mitch has handled all of this like a fucking pro.”

“I’m certainly glad to hear it,” Gary smiled his Cheshire cat smile and added a few chairs to the stack. “You know, if you’re not already on it but are interested, I’ve got a few pamphlets about PrEP in my bag that you could take home and read over.”

“Yeah sure, I’ll take one.”

The pamphlet had a bottle of blue pills on the cover, and even more statistics about mixed status couples in the centerfold. Scott folded it and tucked it into his pocket.

“Y’all were awful generous to help me clean up here tonight. Can I buy you two a drink?”

“Gary, that’s very nice, but I think we’d better go.” Mitch snapped as he yanked Scott toward the exit of the church. 

A giant neon crucifix glowed over them in the suburban silence as they waited for their Uber. 

“Why do you make this so damn hard, Mitch? You want me to hold your leg but not offer any emotional support? Is it okay for me to touch you or not?”

“Yes.”

It obviously hadn’t been the answer Scott was expecting. They waited another twenty minutes before the Uber pulled up to the curb. Scott waited until they were merged onto the highway before he started talking again. He pulled the PrEP pamphlet out of his back pocket and unfolded it.

“Hypothetically, what would you think about me taking this prep stuff?”

“What?” Mitch said in that shocked voice that jumped octaves. 

“I mean, just in case,” Scott muttered, “you know.”

“What, just in case you fucked me by accident?” Mitch ridiculed, not believing his own ears.

Scott laughed, “You know me, Mr. Sex Maniac who can’t control this crazy dick.”

Mitch’s face was still. 

“You don’t want this.” He waved his hands over his body that looked even sicklier in the amber tunnel lights; the hollows of his cheeks sunken in, the skin hanging loosely from his bones. “I’m not a cute little twink boy anymore, you’ve sort of missed the window.”

Scott scoffed, “What if I have wanted you, Mitch? All this time?”

Mitch was quick with his memorized dismissal for conversations like these. Like a robot reciting code, “You were with Alex. Don’t talk crazy.”

“Do you want to know why we broke up?” Scott turned in his seat and tried to look Mitch in the eyes.

“No, not really, Scott.” Mitch could only take so much lovesick conversation about Alex. 

“He wanted me to move out and break off contact with you. He couldn’t trust me not to fool around with you and get _him_ sick. He wasn’t even concerned about me, just him.”

“Well he was right to have doubts apparently.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

Mitch let the conversation rest in an awkward silence for a bit before the curiosity started to invade his every thought.

“So you left him?” he tried.

“Yes. I left him for you, Mitch.” 

Inevitably, a small smile crept up on Mitch’s lips. These were the magic words he’d waited years to hear, but timing was somehow never on his side.

For once, he let himself take a moment to bask in this one victory before pulling his guard back up. “You probably just subconsciously feel bad for me,” Mitch muttered, “I mean look at me, I’m practically a factory for pity.”

“Compassion and pity are different,” Scott said simply, “and I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want, so let’s just drop it. It was just an idea.” He crumpled the pamphlet in his hand and stuffed it back into his pocket. He made eye contact with the eavesdropping driver in the rearview mirror. He must’ve thought they were fucking insane.

 

Scott’s question made a cozy little home for itself in Mitch’s brain over the next few hours. They were back on their couches watching _House Hunters_ again, but there was something hanging over them this time. Scott had offered something that Mitch had imagined never having again. He’d been convincing himself for the past 13 odd years that his feelings for Scott started and ended with friendship. 

As the show cut to commercial Mitch pulled his comforter up further over his shivering arms. He was always cold, so he dragged his comforter around the house with him all the time now. He thought he looked like that stupid kid from the Peanuts. What was his name? Mitch whizzed out his iPhone and googled it. Linus. Ugh, what an ugly name; he was a Linus now. 

“We should start thinking about the next Superfruit video, huh?” Scott proposed.

They’d been on speaking terms since the awkward Uber ride, but things simply weren’t the same between them. Both of them would eagerly return to how it’d been before, but it was apparent that there was no going backward, only forward.

“Mm,” Mitch hummed in agreement, and kept scrolling through the Wiki page on the original Peanuts comics. “Fuck, I can’t stop shaking.” He locked his phone and set it on the ground by his couch.

“Are you cold? I can turn up the heat.” Scott offered.

“Don’t act like that wasn’t an intentional innuendo.” Mitch’s eyes searched his eyes for confirmation.

“Get over here, idiot,” Scott laughed, and lifted his blanket so Mitch could climb under it. Scott draped the blanket over them both and let Mitch get situated beside him. Scott pretty much filled the couch on his own, but Mitch took up virtually no space as it was. His body was tucked between Scott’s and the couch, and his head was rested on Scott’s chest. It was warm there, just lying like that. With each exhalation Scott’s chest rose and Mitch’s head with it. Slowly, the arguments faded from both of their minds, and they felt comfortable in their bodies again. Comfortable with their bodies together, no longer fixated on what it meant or whether it was right.

It was so comfortable, in fact, that Mitch was asleep before the show came back from commercial break. 

 

This became a nightly ritual for them, until things went completely sideways. Usually, Mitch would fall asleep on Scott’s chest and wake up around midnight when the two of them would head off to their separate beds and see each other at breakfast in the morning. On the night in question though, Mitch had fallen asleep with his body lined along the edge of the couch, with Scott’s body at his back. One of his feet snaked around Scott’s ankle, and that, along with Scott’s arm around him, kept him pinned to Scott’s body for hours as they slept. They’d never shared the couch that way before, and when he woke, everything was different. There was an incessant hardness pressing at the space between his thighs. His eyes sprung open and he swatted Scott’s arm as hard as he could. This couldn’t happen. 

“Oh. My. God. That is so embarrassing Mitch I am so sorry.” Scott spat the words out as he quickly realized his half-hard state and sat up.

“Oh my god, you’re” Mitch whispered, unsure of what to do.

“Fuck, I want you so bad, Mitch.” Scott whined.

“It can’t happen, Scott. It’s not—“

“We’ll use condoms, it’ll be fine.”

“No, Scott. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. You’ll get those pills. We’ll use a condom. We’re going to be so insanely safe, okay?”

“I’ll call a doctor in the morning, god, just,” Scott rubbed at his groin, willing the erection to go down.

“Wait, I can…” Mitch started, kneeling in front of Scott’s knees, “it’s low risk.”

Scott nodded and started working at the button of his black jeans but Mitch pushed his hands away and undid them himself. Scott let his head fall back and lifted his hips off the couch when Mitch pulled at his pants. Mitch was hesitant to touch him, because he felt like the exact opposite of Midas at the moment. In fact, he felt like some unlucky guy who gave everything he touched the plague. 

“Wait wait wait,” Scott pressed a hand onto Mitch’s shoulder. “Kiss me first.”

Mitch was slow to get up from his knees, because his joints were still stiff from sleeping. Scott cradled the back of his head and pulled him forward to crash into him. The kiss was nowhere near elegant. Their lips crushed together and at first their teeth clinked and it was a fumbling mess. It was raw and fast and Mitch’s lungs fought to keep up. 

Scott pulled away. His pupils were so dilated he could’ve been on cocaine or something and Mitch wouldn’t know the difference. It was such a rush kissing him. “You are so,” he whispered as Mitch settled between his knees again. 

“Mm,” Mitch hummed as he pulled off Scott’s underwear and nuzzled his already hard length. Scott shivered at the touch, and fell back into the couch as Mitch pulled the swollen head into his mouth. He’d done this probably a hundred times before with other guys, but this felt different. He wanted Scott to come because he made him. God, to think he’d talked about giving this up forever.

He took Scott’s cock as far into his mouth as he could manage and sucked. This elicited a pleasant moan from Scott, whose eyes had fallen closed. He drew sloppy circles along the length of him with his tongue and Scott squirmed under his movements. Mitch wrapped his hand around the base, in that small bed of curly hair and stroked him once slowly. Scott’s hand grappled onto Mitch’s shoulder in a flash, and Mitch decided to push him right up to the edge and into a swan dive over. With a carefully balanced combination of Mitch’s favorite elements of a good blowjob and Scott was frozen in ecstasy, his eyes clenched tight, yelling out as Mitch swallowed and sat back on his heels. 

“That,” Scott said, once he caught his breath, “was one hell of a feeling.” 

Mitch chuckled, “I honestly can’t believe I was going to try celibacy. I love that shit too much.”

Scott glanced down at Mitch’s crotch and started to offer returning the favor, but Mitch shrugged off the offer.

“That didn’t turn you on?” Scott said, heartily disappointed.

“Are you kidding? That was so hot, Scott. It was just all for you this time. Besides, once you get that pill you’ll be doing plenty for me.” He laughed, and pressed a gentle kiss to Scott’s cheek. 

“Fine, but next time I’m going to make you come so hard you won’t know what way’s up.”

 

“Goodbye—!” They harmonized, and Scott stood up to turn off the camera. 

“Do you think they’ll be able to tell?” Mitch asked.

“What, that we’re dating?” 

“That I’m sick.” Mitch mumbled, “I’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“Never, babe. You look amazing. Besides, you’ve been feeling a lot better lately so maybe at the appointment today things will be looking up.”

Mitch’s CD4 count had been remarkably low when he was first diagnosed, which made him feel generally shitty all the time. Since he’d been going to the doctor with Scott in weird tandem ‘date’ appointments—like Scott said, “Anything’s a date if you try hard enough!”—for Truvada checkups, he’d been feeling a lot more confident in his health. 

At their appointment that afternoon, Scott turned out to be right after all, when the doctor gleefully told Mitch that his CD4 levels were way up. He felt blessed. 

They decided to take the evening to celebrate. 

Scott did the reliably cheesy thing and ran a bath with rose petals and a rose scented bath bomb, and ordered tex/mex delivery. Mitch’s contribution to the evening was a bottle of champagne his parents had given him ages ago when Pentatonix won their first Grammy. They devoured the tex/mex like it could be their last meal, and settled into the bath. 

“No point in dirtying glasses, right? We’ll just take the bottle.” Mitch had reasoned earlier in the evening. 

So there they were in the oversized bathtub, at opposite ends staring each other down. Mitch figured you couldn’t even call this thing a bathtub, it was practically a hot tub. It had little bubble jets and everything. Nevertheless, they sat in the tub and enjoyed the Beyoncé playlist and champagne when all of a sudden Rocket came on, and Mitch felt Scott’s foot kneading at his inner thigh. Mitch’s legs were only long enough to barely reach past Scott’s knee, and he was so concentrated on trying to participate in the game of footsy that he almost didn’t notice when Scott cleared his throat to get his attention. 

“Yeah?” he smiled deviously at Scott and stilled his fluttering foot under the water. 

Scott raised his hand above the water and curled his finger to tell Mitch to come over in that cliché way people do. 

Scott pulled Mitch to sit between his legs where he could massage him. He pressed his thumbs into the muscles where his neck met his shoulders. He cupped his hand and rained warm water down Mitch’s back and rubbed small circles along the sides of his spine. As he continued, Mitch seemed to melt under his hands. Soon he was actually reclined on Scott’s chest, with Scott’s arms wrapped around his sides and his hands held loosely between his own in a tangle on his stomach.

After a while the auto timer on the jets ran out and Mitch noticed his toes doing that gross raisin thing they do when they’ve been in water too long.

“This water’s getting kind of cold, why don’t we just go to bed?”

“Mitch it’s so early, you want to go to bed already?”

“Not to sleep, doofus, to bed.”

“Oh, oh my gosh, yeah, yeah okay.” Scott quickly understood and reached behind him to unplug the drain. The water gurgled as it drained out and Scott stepped out of the tub. 

“You go get settled, I’m going to freshen up.” Mitch smirked and Scott kissed him chastely before leaving the bathroom.

Once the door was shut behind him, Mitch inched up to the vanity and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He smiled. He remembered the dream that had set off this insane series of events. He turned his back slowly to the mirror, and glared at the birthmark on his shoulder. There was a matador in his mind waving a red flag at the tiny mole daring it to morph into KS. No chance. 

Mitch let Beyoncé’s ‘Haunted’ wash over him as he splashed his face in the sink, and dragged a razor over the scruff along his jaw. 

_“You want me? I walk down the hallway. You're lucky, the bedroom's my runway. Slap me! I'm pinned to the doorway. Kiss, bite, foreplay.”_

Mitch mouthed the words to himself in the mirror; it was simple muscle memory after listening to it so many times. He bit his lip and ran through his most seductive facial expressions, deciding which one to use when he opened the door to the bedroom. 

Of course, everything he’d planned faded out of his mind as soon as he opened the door and saw Scott sitting in his bed with the sheets pooled around his waist, shirt off. 

Their eyes met and before either of them moved, “You’re so hot,” they both moaned. Scott laughed aloud at the way their voices naturally harmonized. They were meant for each other and there was no way around it.

Mitch’s brain revved up again and trying to think was like sitting on the side of the highway and watching his thoughts rush by. He strode toward the bed, concentrating deeply on each footfall before Scott interrupted, “Get your skinny little legs over here, and get those black briefs off.”

With a laugh, Mitch leapt onto the bed and crawled up to straddle Scott’s lap. He took Scott’s face into his hands and pressed their foreheads together.

“I love you,” he sighed, “you know that, right?”

“Mm,” Scott purred, “but I love you more.” 

“Really, daddy?” Mitch challenged, and ground his hips down onto Scott’s growing attentiveness to the situation.

Scott pressed his palms down on the angle of Mitch’s hips and pressed up onto him. The sheets and Mitch’s underwear still separated them but the sensations flowed freely between them. Mitch rested his head on Scott’s shoulder and kissed at his neck as they moved together. 

Scott hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Mitch’s underwear and pulled them down, to reveal the smooth swath of skin underneath. After some adjustment, the underwear joined the rest of their clothes on the floor, and Mitch joined Scott under the sheets. Their hands roamed over hypersensitive skin and settled in places that elicited the most frantic responses. With a smear of lube over his middle finger, Scott pressed into Mitch, massaging around that coil of nerves that made Mitch beg and beg for him to go harder, faster, deeper, anything to feel that feeling more fully. 

“I’m ready,” Mitch’s voice shook as he said it, but his eyes held a fiery conviction that Scott couldn’t refuse. Scott rolled on a condom and stroked himself as Mitch rearranged his position on the bed.

They became fused together in heat and sweat as Scott moved inside him. The feeling was not new, because Mitch was certainly no virgin, but it was raw and tender and prickly in the beginning. The sensation spread through his body like wildfire, and left him a total wreck. He writhed and panted beneath Scott’s ministrations, rocking and folding to pull him in deeper.

Like the ocean running up to the shore they moved together, frantic and rushing at moments, but slow and unrepentantly sensual at others. There aren’t words to describe the clusterfuck the brain becomes when flooded with so much pleasure. It was only hot breath and desperate hands as Scott focused on lasting as long as possible. 

It would have been easier to let go immediately, and tap out after the first swell of pleasure, but this sex was like body surfing. The finesse of riding wave after wave of agonizing indulgence was not to be discounted. Before either of them knew it though, the concrete manifestation of all of the tingling toe-curling bliss exploded between them in a parade of shouts and shakes. 

Underneath him, Mitch shuddered and gasped for air as Scott rolled onto his side and separated himself from the tangle of their bodies. 

“God,” Mitch said, after they’d both caught their breath.

“Not so bad, huh?” Scott laughed.

“Phenomenal,” Mitch drawled, his eyelids fluttering closed.

“I’m gonna go clean up, I’ll bring a rag out for you,” Scott whispered as Mitch flopped onto his stomach and buried his face in a pillow. Fuck the sheets, they could wash them in the morning. This was pure bliss, too sweet for words.

They were sifting through mail from their PO Box when Mitch saw the yellow envelope tucked in with all the neon pink fan mail. It was addressed to him, and there was a collection of stamps in the corner that had been marked over and over on the envelope’s voyage here. They all featured famous monuments from around Italy, and Mitch felt a little sick remembering his time there. Italy was arguably one of the most beautiful countries Pentatonix had toured in, but the memories were overwhelmingly painful. Honestly, Mitch didn’t even remember the Milan show, only the sloppy aftermath.

Mitch’s name was scrawled across the front in a loopy penmanship that could only have belonged to one person: Giorgio. Scott saw the stricken look on Mitch’s face upon pulling the envelope from the pile, and announced he was going to step out and grab some Starbucks for them. This was something Mitch had to do alone.

He pulled his knees to his chest where he sat in front of the couch and ripped the envelope open. There was a single piece of paper inside, folded over itself twice, covered in the same loopy handwriting.

_Dear Mitch,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I feel a responsibility to share some terrible news with you that hopefully won’t have any bearing on your life. First, though, I must tell you how much I love and respect you. In my mind and heart what we had in Milan was not only a one night stand. However, time permitting, that is all we may ever be. I hope you can forgive me, Mitch. Allow me to explain._

_When you first contacted me over Twitter I was absolutely enchanted by you. There was no inkling of hope in my mind that we would someday meet. I was in a relationship when you came home with me in Milan. I apologize for lying to you, but I only wish this was the worst of my transgressions._

_You must be familiar with the beginning signs of HIV, Mitch. My partner and I both had all of the indicators but I was so deep in denial that I could not seek treatment or even acknowledge my illness. I should never have made love to you, Mitch, because I have put you in grave danger. I pray for your good health, for this is the most gruesome punishment I can imagine. God has not reduced his abuse of my weak body but I feel that I am nearing the end._

_I write to you in hopes that you will have your blood tested for the virus so that you might save yourself from this heartache. You never met my partner, but I have just come from his burial and I cannot describe to you the horror of seeing the life slip from your lover’s eyes before his time. I do not ask for your pity, Mitch, but only for your prudence in the future. I pray that your angelic voice will be the closest you come to heaven for a very long time._

_Please see attached the picture I took of us the night you were here. Please remember me as I appear in the picture, I have grown so weak in the past months I find my own body repulsive. Furthermore, please do not forget me when I am gone, Mitch, I could not bear being forgotten._

_With love from Italy,_

_Giorgio_

 

Mitch put the letter on the ground beside him and pulled the picture out of the envelope. It was dark in the background, and their black shirts made them look like floating heads. They were so wasted that night that they probably felt that way too. Mitch wondered where Giorgio’s boyfriend must have been that night. All night, as they’d fucked again and again without interruption. 

The letter was dated two weeks earlier and Mitch morbidly wondered if Giorgio was even alive. He’d written the letter as if he was on his deathbed. Mitch pulled out his phone and opened Twitter. Giorgio’s account was deleted, but did that mean anything? Maybe he just didn’t want Mitch to get in touch. 

He was still scrolling through the old DMs when Scott came back with two iced coffees. 

“Was it him?” Scott’s voice was tentative.

“Yeah.”

“Well, what’d he say?” 

“He was sick, really sick, and dying. He might be dead now,” Mitch’s voice was even, and his eyes clear.

“How do you feel?” Scott settled onto the ground next to him and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. 

“I don’t know how to feel. Do I forgive him now that I know he meant no harm? Should I forgive him just because he’s dying and it’s merciful?”

“Maybe you should forgive him for you. Maybe that would make you feel better.”

Mitch tucked the picture back into the envelope with the letter and decided, above all, to move on.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment! I'd love to write some new angsty Mitch/Scott stuff for you all :)


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